


Ruperts and Yoyos and the PONTIs Between

by Ewebie



Series: Tumblr Shorts [9]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: BAMF John, Doctor John Watson, John Watson in Afghanistan, Jolto, M/M, Slight references to war related violence, THERE IS NO ANGST. I SWEAR!, This is totally how it started... I mean... I'll fight you on this, blatant misuse of medical knowledge, gratuitous use of military jargon
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-25
Updated: 2015-08-25
Packaged: 2018-04-17 06:14:14
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,175
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4655709
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ewebie/pseuds/Ewebie
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>
  <i>And John Watson could be calm, could be steady, could be easy-going with a lazy smile and a quick sense of humor. And he was good at his job. And he bore the heat and sun and bullets and bombs without a flinch or complaint. But he was not, and never had been, perfectly sane. And what the company didn’t know, what the entire battalion still didn’t realize, was that John Watson was good at a very narrow range of things: he was a sodding great surgeon, he was a fucking brilliant fighter, and he was a bloody giant flirt. And he had a short temper when he couldn’t do all three.</i>
</p>
            </blockquote>





	Ruperts and Yoyos and the PONTIs Between

**Author's Note:**

> Based on a prompt from martainducreff:
> 
> john being young and sexually curious and just shamelessly flirting with sholto everywhere on every day of his duty and sholto just being really cold and dismissive but one night he’ll call john out of his bunk and into his tent and when john comes sholto would attack his mouth with a fierce kiss and whisper “you little tease, i’ll show you now” and john would moan and kiss him again
> 
> I blame vanetti
> 
> (original post here: http://ewebie.tumblr.com/post/127578875393/martainducreff-john-being-young-and-sexually)

John had heard the talk when he’d first arrived. The gossip, the scuttlebutt, the whispers when they thought he couldn’t hear. Just another Rupert. Some short arsed Yoyo that they’d have to hide in the CSH. He’d heard it, but he chose to ignore it. And he continued to ignore it for the day, for a week, for a month. And his ODP kept reminding him to keep his head down; he’d made it through basic, and had every right to be there on the front lines. He was just far more useful scrubbed and cutting with a scalpel in his left hand than humping across the desert with a gun in his right. Surgeons, and skilled ones, were rather difficult to come by. Surgeons crazy enough to work in a warzone were fewer and far between. And surgeons that were willing to sit in the heat and the noise and stuff bowel back inside abdomens, and lop off the stumps of limbs that were no longer useful, and were _good_ at it, kept a level head and a steady hand… Well… Rare as hens’ teeth.

And John Watson could be calm, could be steady, could be easy-going with a lazy smile and a quick sense of humor. And he was good at his job. And he bore the heat and sun and bullets and bombs without a flinch or complaint. But he was not, and never had been, perfectly sane. And what the company didn’t know, what the entire battalion still didn’t realize, was that John Watson was good at a very narrow range of things: he was a sodding great surgeon, he was a fucking brilliant fighter, and he was a bloody giant flirt. And he had a short temper when he couldn’t do all three.

The first time he nearly cracked, he was at morning muster. Falling in with his company. Sharp, steady, solid, and unflinching under the exacting glare of the Major. And when asked, his response was a bold, “Sir. Yes, Sir,” with a microscopic smirk. No one but the Major saw it, and certainly no one could hear it in his tone. But the Major bristled slightly, snapped his shoulders back further, and narrowed his eyes. And the edge in the Major’s voice for the rest of muster was blamed on John, and the whisper of Yoyo drifted across the back of the battalion.

The second time he nearly cracked, he was scrubbed, pulling bits of metal out of a young man’s chest after a patrol gone wrong. The COs were doing a round of inspection, bustling around the periphery of the theatre, sidestepping the multiple teams and multiple screens, and muttering about cleanliness and duty and shifts. And when everyone paused as they reached the table, John ignored them and kept on with what he was doing. Murray whispered a sharp, “Stop, you numpty.”

And John shot daggers with his eyes and met the scrutiny head on, cocking a brow and grinning menacingly beneath his scrub mask. “I’d salute, Major, but I’ve the subclavian artery in my left hand, and a proper salute is outside the sterile field. I’d rather not kill this poor sod for the benefit of institution. You?”

His Major sucked in a sharp breath, his blue eyes icy. But his voice was low, calm, and smooth, when he said a simple, “Carry on.” And murmurs of Rupert followed him around for days after. And John Watson was not entitled. He was not there on legacy or laurels. He was there to do good. To survive a few extra men. To serve Queen and Country and God and earn a reputation that he could be proud of. He was not from privilege. And God knows he wasn’t coddled as a child. And he could give as good as he got. But he stuffed it down and pulled a forty-hour shift in the OT and sent five more soldiers to Birmingham still alive.

The third time, there was no nearly. He cracked. He cracked after his company returned from a patrol while he was scrubbed, with two injuries of relative seriousness, and someone tried to kick him out of the CSH rather than let him treat his own god-dammed soldiers. It wasn’t that some of his men were injured; that was to be expected. It was that the medic on the lines was a useless bumbling sack of shite that didn’t know his arse from his elbow and forgot the first tenant of battlefield triage. A.B.C. Bleeding? Apply pressure. Two bullet wounds left to bleed with no pressure dressing, no tourniquet, no hands to keep the damn crimson on the inside. And after another eight hours in surgery, John Watson stormed out of the CSH, found the medic, and dropped him to ground with a single left hook.

When the spitting and cussing and threats and dust had settled, it had taken three of the grunts to hold John back from invaliding the sonuvabitch home. And the Major had found the mess of a brawl and doled out some of the worst KP the battalion had seen. And an exhausted battalion that was now short a medic and had a wild man as a captain with abraded knuckles and was sweating in the noon heat trying to re-bag the perimeter wall started to mutter about John Watson as a PONTI. And that just brought his anger up to a simmering rage.

The undercurrent of discontent seemed to hang over his head like a storm cloud for another few days. And John Watson bore it like he bore every other bother and underestimation – furiously and with prejudice. The Major finally decided his sentence and threw him out on patrol with his company. Hell, he’d injured the medic, he’d have to take his place. The thought that this silly, young brat would crumble in live fire, would quail in the face of the violence that necessitated his role underpinned the punishment. And John Watson smiled his merciless, tight-lipped smile, and donned the full kit.

It wasn’t luck; John Watson didn’t believe in luck. But on the first night out, they hit a roadblock, full contact, ambush, and firefight. And Captain John Watson earned the triple chevron he wore on his vest. And his company made it back, tired, dusty, and whole. And people were just a little curious. And John Watson was just a tiny bit more relaxed than he’d been since he arrived.

The roughness, the speed, the camaraderie of battle with his company was familiar ground. And John Watson split his time between two talents with more ease than anything he’d ever done in his life. And people took notice. And with the ease came comfort and confidence and a subtle swagger that hadn’t been there before. And the lads started to learn that Captain John Watson could deal with multiple GSWs while directing an entire company and defending himself with a sidearm. He was also rather likely to be at the front of a charge rather than the back, tilting headlong into danger; more likely to pick a fight with the most hulking berk that slighted him, and terribly likely to win; most likely to drink the career soldiers under the table; and insanely likely to wheedle his way out of trouble with a wink and a shrug and an easy smile that couldn’t be duplicated. And PONTI was never mentioned again.

Three weeks later, Captain John Watson was the first in the battalion to carry the mantel of “Maddest Fucker” for learning how to disarm a landmine via radio assistance, because his Lieutenant was injured and collapsed onto of the damn thing. And when he finally walked out of the CSH, fully intact, his Lieutenant on an air evac, and his company halfway to drunk town, the lads picked him up and tossed him in a makeshift pool. Ostensibly to wash the crazy off. Mostly to welcome him back to their circle of trust. And rather than give out, he stripped off his fatigues and shirt and lounged in the pool in just his pants and his boots and demanded a beer. And when the Major passed, John didn’t miss a beat, standing in the pool, saluting while water dripped off his drenched pants. It was late, and it was dark, and no one was quite sure if the Major was cross or not when he muttered, “As you were.” The word Rupert disappeared.

And a month after that, John Watson became legend for rushing out in front of his coy, tackling their Major to the ground while calling him a dip stick, continuing to manhandle the tall man behind the CVs, field dressing the laceration, and sending the CO back to base with an angry shout and a few choice cuss words and the threat that if he died on the way there, John would kill him with his own bare hands. And when the Major wasn’t in the medical cabin when John returned, he took a med bag and stormed the Major’s office, ferociously staring the man down until he let John clean and suture the wound properly, right there on the Major’s desk.

Truth be told, John wasn’t necessarily younger than the other lads. He was actually a few years older. But his height, and his smile, and the blond hair, and cherubic face belied his age and experience. And perhaps a few mannerisms, like the way he held his tongue between his teeth at the corner of his mouth while concentrating, or the way his dimple appeared when he gave that puckish grin, it all gave his expressive face a glint of youth. And when he finished suturing the laceration just below Major Sholto’s right ribs, he smoothed a bandage over top, snapped his gloves off, smirked, and told the Major that should he manage to bust up the careful work, John would tie him to his chair and make sure it didn’t happen again. Then he winked boldly and left the Major to his work.

In the next month, a few people mistook John’s actions for reckless, for borderline suicidal, for brash and idiotic. But John Watson knew exactly what he was doing. His mind was rather well tuned for military tactics, and his endurance allowed for long hours, little sleep, brutal battles, and finely honed repair of flesh and bone. No one called him a Yoyo anymore. He started earning other nicknames. Maddest Fucker had some staying power. His ability to flirt a free drink off of just about anyone, _anyone_ earned him another. The lads that he’d patched up, not injured enough to need evac started calling him Doc; his ODP started calling him Runt; and the Major… Well the Major started calling him Watson. And it was just shy of too casual for rank and order, and John loved it, and he met it with a very careful smile under his salute whenever he heard it. And people started to suspect that they knew John Watson. They would have been incorrect, but happy in their belief.

On the other hand, it was difficult to decide if knowing the other soldiers made life easier or harder. So John just didn’t decide. He kept his head down when he was cutting. He cared enough that he’d do his best regardless of who was on the table, who was in the injury bay. And he cared enough to know where to stop, to know where discretion became the better part of valor. And they became just another life or death decision, one more choice where his actions would either save or destroy lives. And somehow, there was no choice. There was never a decision to make. He knew what had to be done and how. A tribute to his training, perhaps. A nod to the deeply entrenched moral fibers of his soul, more likely. A byproduct of never being comfortable that he could push beyond the limits of exhaustion to keep working when he was well and truly needed. And when someone was in an injury bay, screaming, and yelling for “Doc,” through whatever blinding pain they were in, John couldn’t walk away from that. Not ever.

“Doc,” one of the medics called. “I’ve got one for you!”

John threw a forlorn glace to Murray who only shrugged in response. And John had no choice but to head into the bay and get to work. On the convoy that got hit. On the injuries that were, thankfully, mostly mild. Except maybe for the one they were sending him in to handle. And he pushed into the bay and drew up short.

“Watson.”

Oh Lord. He was dusty. And God those head injuries bled like crazy, didn’t they. But no other blood? A quick glance head to toe didn’t show any exposed or ill-angled bone. He didn’t look otherwise damaged… “Sir,” John frowned. Pressure dressing high on the forehead, nearly at his left temple. Small amount of bruising just starting to set at the edges. No other visible injury. Head injury then? Went off the dash of the Humvee? The streaks of soot, char, and maybe oil between the powder of earth that decorated his fatigues said that he hadn’t stayed in the vehicle. And of course not. You can’t shout at your troops from inside a burning CV. His eyes didn’t look right. “Alright?”

The huff was mostly expected. The crossed arms were less coordinated than usual. The eye roll was out of character. “This is absurd. I have work to do.”

John felt the corner of his mouth twitch. “So do I… Sir.”

“You are…” Sholto furrowed his brow and flinched as the movement pulled at the injury.

He pulled on a fresh pair of gloves and perched on the edge of the cot. “I am?” he asked absently, carefully prodding the space around the bandage, assessing the swelling before removing the dressing and swearing under his breath. It was deep. Too big to glue. At least a dozen stitches. And fucking hell it was going to keep bleeding the whole time. Scalps… Damn. Concussion? Likely.

“Infuriating.”

John smirked. “Oh really?” He replaced the bandage. “Anything else damaged?”

“You. In the head.”

John snorted. “You can tell me honestly, or I’ll strip you down to your pants and have a good long look. Sir.”

“No. Nothing. Just the gash there.”

John raised a brow.

“Honestly.”

“Right.” He did a rapid top to toe PNS, checking reflexes, checking sensation. All was in order there. John hummed out a non-committal sound and pulled a pen torch from his pocket. “Look at me.” He held the Major’s chin in the palm of his hand, passing the light in and out of both eyes. Bit slow. Equal though. Definitely concussed. He put the torch away, but kept his hold on Sholto’s jaw, watching his eyes. “Did you vomit?” Slight headshake for no. “Lose consciousness?” Huff. “How fast was the Humvee going when it disregarded your authority and stopped suddenly?”

“Sixty,” he rolled his eyes at John.

“You get anything for the pain?” Sholto’s response was an eye roll again. “How bad is it?”

“Your questions are far more aggravating.”

John felt his mouth twitch again as he sat back and snapped off his gloves. “Right. CT. Stitches. Proper analgesia. Forty-eight hours rest.” It was actually a miracle he’d made it this far without collapsing.

Sholto glared at him. “Ridiculous.” He made to push off the cot.

John raised a brow, pursed his lips, and pressed two fingers into the Major’s sternum. It wasn’t a hard shove. It was carefully done, angled just right so he’d have the cot directly behind the fall. And the gentle pressure off set Sholto’s rather non-existent balance enough that he collapsed backwards. “No,” John murmured. “What’s ridiculous is you thinking that you’re fit for duty. Particularly after your armored vehicle was half blown up by an RPG, you concussed yourself on dash, you continued to hold command for what I’m only guessing is another two hours, and when the medics insisted you get checked out, you were overly belligerent enough that they sent me in.” John crossed his arms.

If the Major was trying to glare at him, the expression wasn’t working. “It’s insubordination.”

John broke into lop-sided grin. “Is it, Sir?”

“Infuriating.”

“You already said that.”

“Exasperating.”

“Still getting a CT and stitches.”

“Irritating.”

John bit down on his lower lip. “Are you listing my good qualities then?” Sholto frowned. John gave a slight nod. “I’ll make sure they give you something after I’ve cleared the CT. Then we’ll get you all stitched up and you can glare menacingly at the maps from the comfort of your own tent.”

“Going to tie me to a chair then?”

He felt his cheeks heat. “Only if you insist on continuing to be a rubbish patient.” John tried not to smile as he stood to head out of the bay. But he winked at the Major from the door. “Or… If you’re into that sort of thing.” It was the magic of head injuries. People tended not to remember much about them. And when the CT was done, and painkillers were on board, and John was hunched over, carefully, efficiently closing the wound, John had to ignore the way the Major’s palm was wrapped around his knee, occasionally flexing rather than allowing his face to flinch with the pull of the sutures. It was one of the odd intimacies of the medical profession, the quiet moments.

The following month was hot. Hotter than hell. And no sane, living being was out during the midday. It left the fighting for dusk and dawn, and even then there was a lull of exhausted fatigue that just didn’t allow full on assaults or tactical ambush. It was quiet. Sure John still had plenty to do in the CSH. Heat made for poor tempers and worse decisions, and the injuries were steady. But the patrols were cut down. And his company experienced the oddly welcome, occasional night off. And on those nights, the company could often be found drinking, playing cards, generally messing about in the most open-air tent they could find. And it was a time that John was grateful he’d proven himself worthy of his command, and knocked enough skulls that the alcohol and occasional outburst were easily diffused with a steely look and crossed arms. And they all knew that John Watson could turn from twinkle-eyed merriment to carefully controlled rage with military precision. And strangely, the threat made everyone more relaxed.

So John found himself enjoying a cold, mercifully and wonderfully chilled cold, beer. He propped his foot on the table, rocking his chair back onto two legs, and letting his other foot swing lazily in the space created. He let his head rock back and closed his eyes. It was almost, nearly, quite possibly, peaceful. And he let the bottom of the bottle rest on his forehead. And God that was lovely.

“Gentlemen?”

John’s eyes snapped open in time with his chair returning sharply to the ground and his spine pulling achingly straight. He was halfway to his feet when a hand clapped down on his shoulder, holding him in the chair.

“At ease.”

The hand on his shoulder flexed and relaxed and lifted. And John blinked up at the Major. “Sir?”

“Pull up a chair, Major. We’ve only just started. Bit of Texas Hold’em.”

John shot Murray a worried look, but the man just shrugged. Sholto seemed to examine the table, the men sitting around it, the possible levels of intoxication and relaxation. “It would be… imprudent to gamble with those under my command.”

John felt a bit of his unease settle. But Franks just kept on talking. “It’s not like we’re playing for money, Major. It’ll be grand.”

“What, exactly, are the stakes?”

“Bottle caps,” the Lieutenant lied easily. John rolled his eyes, but hid the expression behind a swig of beer.

“Watson?”

John nearly choked on the sip as he raised his eyes to Sholto. He was… He was asking permission? “Ah…,” John scratched the back of his head. “I’m not really one for gambling. I’m not terribly good at it.” Then he wrinkled his nose and waved at the table. “But by all means…”

Sholto hummed and tilted his head. “Maybe next time.” The lads shrugged and started up the hand. “Watson, a word, if you please?” And he started heading away from the tent.

John scrambled to set his beer on the table and catch up to the Major. “Sir?” he fell into step with the taller man.

He was silent as they made their way across the open ground, out behind the canteen, towards the perimeter wall. He only spoke once they were in the still and quiet of an oddly secluded corner of the base; once they were alone. “How are you finding it here, Watson?”

John wet his lower lip absently. “Finding it, Sir?”

Sholto’s face twitched. “The work? The company? The war? Is it meeting your expectations?”

He raised a brow slowly. “I don’t know what I was expecting, to be honest, Major. But I’m comfortable, I think.”

There was a flicker of a smile. “Comfortable?”

“Well, sure.” John grinned. “When I’m not being shot at, or blown up, or elbows deep in viscera. I mean, the scenery is rather spectacular.” It earned him an honest, however small smile. “Never seen so many stars,” he tilted his head back to indulge the gorgeous night sky. In the quiet that followed, John surreptitiously watched Sholto out of the corner of his eye. And the Major wasn’t watching the stars. From where he was standing, John was fairly sure it was his neck that had the man’s attention. John deliberately swallowed before turning to face him. “Gorgeous,” he murmured.

Sholto’s face went blank, but not without a dusting of color washing across his cheekbones. John gave him a lazy smile and leaned back against the wall. The Major watched him for a long moment, studying him as though he could pick him apart if he just looked hard enough. Then he broke the silence with a muttered, “Infuriating.” And he turned on his heel and stalked away. John sighed, shook his head, and enjoyed the peace and quiet. Because he knew it wouldn’t last.

And he was right. It didn’t last. Maybe that was the way of things in a warzone: temporary, fleeting, volatile. And something about that knowledge was freeing. And John relaxed a little further into the niche he’d carved for himself here. If that meant that he winked at the Major when they crossed paths, certainly when the Major was the only soul that would see it; if it meant he started using the word infuriating as often as possible in his briefings; if it meant that the tone of his voice when he said, “Sir,” was deeper, darker, growling, then so be it. John Watson had accepted the transient nature of his own existence, and he was damn well going to enjoy himself in the mean time. And he knew the Major noticed. Because every salute was met with tightness around the eyes, and every wink was met with hands clenched tightly at sides, and every side-eyed look and smirk and infuriating was met with the smallest hint of a blush.

And within a week, the heat wave broke, action was stepped up, and everyone was infinitely more busy. It was still hot. It was still miserable. But the decimating edge was just off the heat enough that people could move around during the day. And that meant more fighting. And more injuries. And the CSH was roasting hot, and crowded, and cramped, and had an ever-present stench of sick and blood that John could only shake off when he managed to get off base on patrol. And he’d rather fill his nose with the smell of gun oil and diesel and dust than the rather persistent stink of failing bodies. He closed up with Murray, setting the final sutures across the abdomen and stepping back from the table with a tired sigh. “I’m going out for air.”

Murray nodded. “Take some water. It’s still deadly out.”

John descrubbed and pushed through the doors of the OT, grabbing a full bottle of water on his way out into the air and sun. He found a spot to lean against the metal wall of the CSH directly in the sun. He cracked the bottle and drank half in one go, then tipped his face up and closed his eyes. Maybe the sun could burn the smell off of him, he could sweat it clear of his pores. But he was already tacky with eight hours of working on his feet. He groaned, scrubbed at his face with one hand, then upended the bottle over his forehead. The water wasn’t ice cold, but it was chilled enough that he shivered before shaking the excess free. He sighed, stripped his tee shirt and found a dry corner to mop his face.

“Watson.”

He slung the shirt over his shoulder and pulled to attention. “Major.” He held the salute, barely resisting the urge to smirk as his CO gave him an intense once-over.

“Not exactly regulation, Captain.”

John dropped his arm, returned to parade rest, and tilted his head. “It’s infuriatingly hot, Sir.”

Sholto’s jaw clenched and released, then he closed the distance between them in two sharp strides, leaning down into John’s space. “We do live in a warzone, Watson. A bit of decorum, if you can.”

John tipped his chin up, “Of course, Sir. Just thought it might be unprofessional to drop from heatstroke in my theatre.” His tongue rolled out slowly along his lower lip. “Won’t happen again.”

He watched as Sholto dragged his gaze up from his mouth to meet John’s stare. “See that it doesn’t.”

“Yes, Sir.” An easy smile spread across John’s face as he left the Major to his retreat. And once he was out of sight, John sighed again, wiped his face with the tee shirt, and wrinkled his nose. Damn he needed a shower.

It was another run of busy days. And John was either in the CSH, out on patrol, or kipping wherever there was a spot of shade and less noise than elsewhere. He was tired, sure, but flying high on his adrenaline and satisfaction. It was a new revelation that his ODP was sodding brilliant with a sniper rifle. And with a proper spotter, Murray would be right deadly at obscene distances. But it meant more excursions, more contact, more crawling on his belly in the dirt, and patience. And wasn’t that ever starting to grate on his nerves. Patience: what a vile thing.

They trudged in from a long, slow, and quiet day of baking in the sun and waiting for someone to pop out of their hidey-hole. It didn’t happen. It felt like a wasted day. And they stopped just inside the wall to disarm and leave their dangerous pieces behind. And he could tell that everyone felt drained by the lull. And the Major was striding over, stalking across the open space to probably snap at them, and John could only roll his eyes. He pursed his lips and turned his face away, glaring sightlessly at the giant gates as they closed. He had done it out of habit, out of a need to deflect his agitation from a target that would get everyone in trouble, but it was a moment of providence. He squinted at the heat shimmers. Was that a vehicle?

“Company!” Sholto barked from the open yard. “Fall in!”

John frowned and stared. There was a double wall on the perimeter. It would be… challenging to drive a vehicle in unless you were full speed… And didn’t plan on leaving…

“WATSON!”

John blinked. He’d seen that truck before. Where had he seen it? Somewhere… At the target’s farm? At the neighbor’s? At… Oh God. Hauling the fertilizer. Oh GOD! “GET BACK!” He waved his arms, running into the yard, gesturing the company away from the wall, away from the gates. “EVERYONE GET BACK!” He must have looked insane. Must have looked completely cracked. But his company listened. God bless them, they listened, scattering back into the shelter of the buildings off the yard. Everyone listened but the Major. And sure, why would he? Here his barking mad Captain was gone loola. And somewhere at his back he heard the calamity begin, squealing tires, metal on metal, the snap of semi-automatic fire. And John ran. He ran full speed. As fast as his damn, short legs could carry him.

The impact of the truck against the gates gave a loud and horrifying shriek. And John lunged. He was only a few feet away. He managed to get an arm around the Major’s waist and both of them were off their feet. Both of them headed for the hard, packed earth. Both of them landed in a tangle of limbs as they rolled. And John ended up on top for a split second, throwing his arm over the back of his head as the world exploded.

He groaned. At least, he thought he did. Hard to tell with the shrill, high-pitched, ringing in his ears. Everything hurt. He forced himself to take a deep breath, and hissed as it triggered darts of pain along his back and ribcage.

“Captain?”

“Watson!”

He forced his eyes open for a moment and it was too bright to keep that up. But he could swear he saw the Major’s face, Murray’s… It smelled like gasoline. He could taste metal. And the world lurched and he was out.

His head was absolutely pounding. That was the first thought he had. It was followed shortly thereafter by a registered complaint from his low back and flank. Then his throat suggested that it was possible he’d been dry swallowing sand and he let out a gritty moan.

“Sir?”

He furrowed his brow, pressing his eyes closed tightly before blinking them open. Things were a bit blurry, a bit unsteady, and he winced. “Murray?”

“You are one crazy sonuvabitch, Runt.”

He tried to huff out a laugh, but muscles he didn’t know existed protested the movement. “How bad?”

Murray gave a reassuring smile. “Anyone else would probably be dead. But you’ve a few bruises and scrapes. Bit of a concussive injury to the lungs, but it’s not bad. I’d have you up on your feet in a day, back to the CSH in three, full active duty in a week?”

He winced. “No one else would have been so stupid.”

“Probably not,” Murray grinned. “But that’s what we love about you, Cap’t.” He waved a small syringe. “How’s the pain?”

“Six? I’ve had rugby injuries worse, I think.” He let Murray help him into a slightly more upright position on the pillows.

“Yeah well, the medics have you on this. Who am I to argue? I’m just a nurse,” Murray pulled a face and pushed the drug through the IV.

“You’re not.” John felt his voice rasp. “I couldn’t possibly get some water, could I?”

“Thought you might ask,” Murray produced a bottle of water. “Small sips. If you puke it out, I’ll have to clean it up. And I only like you so much.”

The cool water was a balm to his throat, soothing all the way down to his stomach, and he gave a slightly pleased hum. It felt nice. He felt… nice. And warm. And heavy. And… Oh. Opiates. “Wait, Bill. Anyone else?”

Murray gave him a confused look. “That might have made sense in your drug addled brain there, but I’ve no idea what you just asked.”

“The Major. Is he…”

“He is rather cross,” Sholto said flatly, arms crossed over his chest as he glared at John from the door. John blinked, having just the slightest amount of trouble bringing him into focus over the distance.

“And I have things to do.” Murray scrambled up from the stool and saluted the Major, then left the room in a hurry.

John watched the Major cross to the cot, sit on the stool, glare. And he couldn’t find any signs of injury. He looked… Well, he looked mad as hell, but uninjured. Something that John found remarkably pleasing. He smiled. “Alright?”

Sholto brows furrowed angrily. “I’m sorry?”

John raised a brow, his smile sticking. He felt a bit dopey, if he was being honest. “Alright… Sir?”

Sholto closed his eyes with a sigh. “Idiot.”

“Infuriating?” John offered with amusement.

“What were you thinking?” Sholto hissed.

John blinked and pursed his lips. “I was thinking, man, that truck is driving really fast toward our gate. And then I thought, right, that truck was the one with all the fertilizer in it. And then I thought, this is going to explode a lot.”

Sholto ran a palm rather harshly over his face. “And you couldn’t possibly articulate that rather than knocking me down?”

John chewed on his lower lip, biting away a smile. “Doesn’t really roll off the tongue like ‘Get down.’” Sholto scoffed. “And you didn’t get down.”

“You used yourself as a bloody human shield you absolute, raving nutter!”

John was floating enough that the tone didn’t bother him. “Worked dinnit.”

“That is not the point!”

John gave a small shrug. “Maybe I just wanted an excuse to roll ya.” He caught his tongue between his teeth and smile around it.

“You are, by far and away, THE most-”

“Infuriating?” John offered with a puckish grin.

“Irritating! Bone-headed!”

“Exasperating?”

“Yes! Exasperating!” Sholto clenched his jaw and set his shoulders. “You cannot do that.”

“Do what?”

“Sacrifice yourself to keep me from bodily harm.”

“But maybe I like your body,” John murmured.

Sholto’s eyes tightened as he studied John’s face. “You’re high.”

“Yesss,” John nodded. “But it doesn’t make that not true.”

“Idiot.”

John smiled pleasantly. And the more obscure the insult, the broader his smile became. And the Major built himself up to a full on tirade, volume and swearing included. It was definitely the opiates, because John was barely holding back his giggles. Then he wasn’t. He was giggling. He was on a cot, in the med tent, high as a kite, and giggling at his CO. And Sholto’s face almost went apoplectic.

“You listen to me,” Sholto’s voice dropped, low, chillingly calm. “You are not to step foot outside of this bay until the doctors release you. You are not to return to duty until the doctors say it’s alright. You will not be out on patrol until I say. Am I clear, Captain?”

John managed to rein in his mirth, just enough to tamp down the laughter. He couldn’t possibly smother the amused twitch of his mouth. “Sir, yes, Sir.”

Sholto glared, a healthy flush in his cheeks from the shouting. He pulled himself upright, straightening his spine to stare down at John from his full height. He cocked a brow, gave a small nod, “Watson.” And he turned on his heel and stormed out of the medical tent. John sighed and rested back against the pillow, still warm, still floaty, still feeling the urge to giggle. Morphine was lovely.

It took the better part of a week for John to be let out of the CSH. And it was two weeks before he was back with his company for training. Two and a half before he was back in the CSH cutting. Three before he went out on patrol. And it was a short patrol. The orders were clearly cut to test his mettle. To make sure he was ready to be back on duty. To make sure his men would still follow him. Maybe to check if he would be slightly more cautious. But sure enough, when the shooting started, his hands were steady, his voice was loud and clear, and his orders were certainly tactically sound, if only mildly insane.

They were all back in the mess in time for supper. And it made John a bit antsy, itchy under the skin, subtly enraged. He hadn’t come here to be coddled. He was physically and psychologically sound, and it was time to get back to business. And as they ate, he watched his company filter in and out, one at a time, tagging in and out. Then Franks whispered something to Murray, and Murray shot John a look before excusing himself. And John Watson lost his temper.

He dropped his fork and pushed back from the table, storming out of the canteen after Murray. He followed him to one of the field tents, and posted himself at the door, glowering with his arms crossed. “Please, carry on. Don’t mind me.” Sholto’s head snapped up and he narrowed his eyes. John wasn’t dissuaded. “By all means, you were only discussing my field worthiness. Why bother to ask me? As you were,” he waved a hand dismissively. “Sir.”

Sholto was on his feet in a flash, stalking the distance to the door. John refused to budge; he was a stubborn bastard when he wanted to be. “This,” Sholto hissed. “Is SOP.”

The corner of his mouth tugged back. “Is it now?” The smirk stretched into a tight-lipped smile. “I would have thought SOP was a debriefing with the whole company, myself included. But if you want to waste time asking everyone individually if I’ve not lost it completely, be my guest. Debrief away,” John raised a brow. “Sir.”

He could see the irritation, maybe anger that pulled at the corners of Sholto’s eyes. Everything so tightly controlled, so carefully disciplined, but everything was written in his eyes. “Perhaps, in my experience, I’ve found men more willing to openly criticize their superiors in private.”

“Oh, I’ve no problem being publically critical, Sir.”

“I do not have time to worry that one of my senior medical officers has done something moronic trying to save someone’s arse,” Sholto ground out.

He was too cross to check himself, and John simply wanted to shock the stupid out of the Major. “It’s not just anyone’s arse.” His smile walked a fine line between flirty and unhinged as he licked his lips. “And I’m glad it’s still in one piece, looks lovely that way… Sir.”

That did it. John could see him crack around the edges. His face flushed crimson as every muscle seemed to tense and his answer was an exceptionally low growl. “My office. Now!” John shifted his body slightly, letting the Major go first, a small nod to the rank and a subtle way to watch his CO storm off from behind. Because if he was honest, John liked the way the Major filled out his fatigues. And John could pinpoint the moment Sholto realized what would be occurring behind his back, by the flush that spread along the back of his neck.

And they reached his office, the small porti-cabin, sandwiched in the middle of other usefully unoccupied cabins. And Sholto threw open the door with enough force that it smashed off in interior wall with a loud bang. “Inside!”

John rolled his eyes, rolled his shoulders, and maybe rolled his hips a bit as he mounted the stairs in front of the Major. And Sholto was only half a step behind him. And John barely got a look into the room before the door was slammed closed with the weight of his body. He hadn’t expected it and the shock of the impact was enough to stun him into a moment of inaction as Sholto’s palm pressed heavily against his sternum, pinning him to the door.

“You have got to stop.”

John blinked. It wasn’t quite anger. He knew anger. Something else was straining the Major’s control, pulling tension in his face, tightening the corners of his eyes. It took an exceptionally conscious effort to relax his body, keep from fighting, from lashing back. “Stop what?” he asked deliberately.

Sholto’s face convulsed. “Flirting.”

Oh. Ooooh. John felt the smile start before he could stop it. “Bothering you, is it?”

“It’s infuriating, inappropriate,” Sholto hissed, crowding John further against the door. “Can’t you stop?”

“I can. Of course.” John tilted his chin up. “If that’s what you want.” He was so close. There was barely room to breathe between them. But he was so tall, and John had to consider how, if possible, he could do something about this problem. And he dropped his gaze from Sholto’s eyes to his mouth and God if he could keep from licking his lips. “Or…”

It was a low rumble, a growl or a snarl, a roll of thunder from somewhere deep in Sholto’s throat. And John actually knocked his head off the door with the force of Sholto’s mouth crashing into his own. And it was messy. And rough. And frustrated. And forceful. And sinfully wonderful. And it was teeth and tongue and goddamn, he could stay like this forever if he didn’t drown first. And maybe he moaned first, but there was an answering growl from the broad chest pressed against his. And John risked letting his hands enter the fray from where he’d pressed them flat on the door. And he grabbed at the fabric of Sholto’s shirt, found his fingers sliding into the hair at the nape of Sholto’s neck. And his own shirt was tugged free of his fatigues, and buttons were opened as a rather persistent mouth lipped at his jaw, at his neck, at his ear. And he whined.

“Infuriating, Watson,” Sholto murmured into his neck.

“Oh, God. John. Please.” And there was a warm palm on his hip, skin to skin. And his shirt was shucked onto the floor as his tee shirt was rucked up and he wanted more skin on skin. So he attacked the buttons he could reach as he sought Sholto’s mouth again. Finding it and trying to taste the back of the Major’s teeth. And he was mostly successful as he stripped the shirt down Sholto’s arms and hooked his fingers in the man’s belt, yanking him forward again, disappearing the space that had been necessary for buttons but was now uselessly aggravating.

“James.”

John nipped at his lower lip. “Yes, Sir.”

“Exasperating.”

“Desk.”

“Bed.”

He gave a small yelp as he was hauled off the door. John wasn’t used to being out sized, out muscled. His tee shirt was dragged over his head and dropped unceremoniously on the floor. Sure he’d had a few flings with other blokes, but he’d always been the stronger of the two, if not taller. And as he was being all but manhandled, tripping blindly backwards over his boot heels into unfamiliar territory, his body gave a small jolt of adrenaline and he relaxed into it. It was… nice. Relieving. Mollifying. And Sholto kicked the bedroom door closed, and John actually let out an eep of protest as he was tossed onto the bed. He froze, startled by the sound he’d made, and Sholto was looking at him with unbridled amusement. Then John broke down in giggles. It was just too damn funny.

“Captain, get your boots off of my sheets.” Sholto grumbled, his mouth twitching in barely concealed mirth. “A bit of decorum, if you could.” It made John laugh harder as he struggled to sit up and reach his laces. He managed to work one knot free in the time it took Sholto to shed both of his boots and the opposite one John wasn’t working on. James tossed it over his shoulder and leaned into John’s space. “I thought surgeons were supposed to be good with their hands.”

Oh. That’s how it was going to be. John grinned wickedly, “I’ve been told I’m better with my mouth.” And he set about to prove it. He managed to get wrestle James out of his fatigues and pants and onto his back in the middle of the bed.

It shouldn’t have been funny how the bed was almost too small for James. Almost. And it was funny. And John was forced to press his face into the soft spot below James’ navel to stifle a laugh. And Sholto’s fingers were carding through his hair, “What’s so funny down there?”

John nipped at the skin and smiled serenely up from his position between James’ legs. “Do your feet dangle over the edge of the bed at night?”

“I will put you in the luggage compartment for the next convoy,” James threatened.

John raised a brow. “I could probably fit under your desk.”

Whatever words he’d intended to say died on the Major’s tongue as he bit back a sharp groan and his head hit the pillow with a thud. And John set about to prove how good he was with his mouth. He was cautious, careful perhaps with the start, though not unsure. There were times to draw it out, to tease and torture, drawing out the tension, but then there were times like this. They demanded the direct route. And John started by securing his hand around the base of Sholto’s cock and diving in with a few gentle licks, short, firm, and focusing rather closely on the head. Focusing on the taste, the texture, the weight against his tongue.

“John…” The Major turned John’s name into a series of near breathless gasps that shuddered down John’s spine. He knew what he was doing, but Sholto’s responses spurred him on, and John grinned as he kissed and sucked down the length of his shaft before licking a stripe up from root to tip. John paused, adjusted himself where he was achingly hard in his fatigues, his position, braced his free hand on Sholto’s hip, and glanced up from beneath his lashes. Sholto groaned at the expression then let out a sharp moan as John swallowed him down in a quick, smooth motion. “Jesus!”

Oh God, that was loud. John growled softly until Sholto crammed half his fist into his mouth to muffle the noises, his breath coming in short pants around his knuckles. John hummed and picked up his pace, hollowing his cheeks as he sucked and swallowed, swirling his tongue around the head as he pumped the shaft, falling into a steady, relentless, worshipful rhythm. It was the hand that fisted in his hair that really did it though. Well and truly proved his point as the last threads of the Major’s control snapped. In spite of the hand trying to stifle the sounds, short, throaty groans filled the small room. And regardless of John’s firm grip on the man’s hips, he bucked up hard. And the nearly painful twist of fingers in his sun-bleached hair notwithstanding, John was very much in control. He relaxed the back of his throat and did his best to let the tip of Sholto’s cock slide past the border of his soft palate, taking him deep enough to swallow around him. And he felt the tension, the swelling, the desperation, and he hummed.

That was it: the destruction of self-restraint. And for all the stoicism and dignity, James Sholto lost himself in the rush of his orgasm. And John swallowed it down eagerly, coaxing the last waves of pleasure from him. And after a moment, John propped himself up on an elbow, grinning at the absolutely wrecked and debauched picture his CO painted. John felt the smile grow as he met the glassy-eyed stare from the head of the bed. He raised a brow. “Alright there, Sir?”

Sholto huffed out a low chuckle. “Infuriating.”

It was a rough week. It had been exceptionally busy in the worst ways and John found himself scrubbed more often than not. And found himself kipping half the time in the CSH or in the med tent, which is where he was spending most of his time not scrubbed. And the rest of it… Well… He sighed and stripped his gloves, giving Murray a tired nod. “Done so?”

“Done. That was awful.”

John gave a hum of agreement as they headed outside for some air. They found a spot in the sun and lounged back against the wall, enjoying the bright heat and a bottle of water. John scratched the nape of his neck and groaned. “If I never see another series of Claymore injuries again…”

“Watson.”

John squinted up as the Major stopped just shy of their bench. “Sir?”

“Debrief. Ten minutes.”

John pulled a face and nodded. “I’ll change out of the scrubs then be along.”

Sholto gave a tight nod and left the way he came. Murray watched him leave with a frown. “He’s been awfully demanding of your time. That’s what? Five meetings this week alone? I mean, we can’t possibly have that much new intel.”

John sighed and gave Murry a wry grin. “Ya know, he’s a right pain in my arse.”

**Author's Note:**

> Translation of some of the jargon in case people are wondering.
> 
> Rupert - commissioned officer (including physicians)  
> Yoyo - is a young officer in training  
> PONTI - is an acronym for Person Of No Tactical Importance  
> CV - combat vehicle  
> coy - company  
> CSH - Combat Support Hospital  
> ODP - Operating department practitioner


End file.
